


Tempest

by SpicyWalrus



Category: Dead Space
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Breath Control, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyWalrus/pseuds/SpicyWalrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver finds an unusual outlet for his temper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually really nervous to post this but.... I decided to try out this divergence thing, went ahead and took out the DLC ending spoilers (cough brethren moons cough) and threw in some rough and tumble sexy times. phew

Everything is being reconstructed. Everything just came to a halt, everything is.... Back. Order is half resumed and the Markers aren't a problem anymore. A sort of mood set to occasional twitches and boards always covering the floor vents make this place sort of... Home. The heater barely works, but the two-ingredient food made is great.

  
All thanks to Isaac, actually.

  
Living with an insane-ex-hate-buddy... Scratch that all— living with anyone for that matter, after her, after them... It's almost alright. Actually, it is alright, because company and work is all Carver really has anymore. Isn't lonely, isn't complaining, but in the brutal truth, he's lost everyone.   
Again, thanks to Clarke-- ahem, _Isaac_ \--, there's a sliver of light in a tunnel of all-around shit. 

  
Sometimes the man makes Carver laugh, fixes things that he finds wrong; hell, the man somehow made cable television capable through whatever nifty ass cordage and skills he had. In all admittance, he's made the shit of a repaired apartment into a shit of an apartment… Which is good, mind you.

  
Flickering fluorescence and cold showers? Oh, just _perfect_.

  
But, again... He isn't lonely, isn't complaining. Despite the engineer being one piss poor attempt at a conversationalist— okay, he can hold a conversation once it's actually started—he’s in good company.

  
And when there's times that company is at the highest potentially calming factor on the list of Shit Carver Needs When he Freaks—like _now,_ oh boy, Isaac is there on the spot. When Clarke needs to just shut the fuck up, it takes literally a glance that says just sit there and be for him to understand. When he needs to jump in and hold Carver in place simultaneously telling him the same circle of words to calm him down; well, that's just something he's prepared for all the time. 

 

  
 But this time..?

  
Beneath Isaac's fingertips are sheets to a bed that stands 0 to 1 every cold apartment night and man is it going to be stained with the compressed and pure feeling he wants to just seep and disperse from his fingertips. Whatever happened, Isaac somehow wishes didn't go so far. But what didn't happen would've been for better or worse.

  
Kept cooped inside was a little bundle of helpless silence that broke open and went out. And when that silence went out, it went free on a chariot of _fire_.

  
"John," came the word, that single syllable that made the Sergeant in front of him freeze with a fuse that just stopped with what could've been-- might've been-- misfire. It'd only take a tap or two to relight, Isaac absolutely knew. "Stop right here and just listen to me."

  
Carver's voice-- " _Y_ _ou_ listen, Isaac!"--booming and without direction.

  
"The hell do you think I've been doing?" Clarke spat, keeping at least arm's distance away from the other man. His voice held in anything _but_ venomous or angry, it sounded somehow exasperated.

"Let's evaluate how tired I've become over not opening my mouth and letting you know what part I'm playing in this conversation-- because obviously, you think it's one-fucking-sided.

  
"Every time you wake up in that cold sweat, Carver, I'm right there." Nightmares, oh nightmares the _nightmares_ he has, Isaac holds the subject of what they pertain to back from speaking it out. He doesn't _need_ to. "I've seen you staring, empty, not saying anything, Carver, I get it! I've gone through it, too."

  
The other end is silent, nostrils flared, snaggle canines bearing behind a growing snarl. In a far thought Isaac remembers how he almost loves those canines. Clarke worries his upper lip for a moment and paces once; only once. "Or how about- how about when you blow up like this, when I know that if I open my damn mouth, the words just go in one ear and out the other," Clarke turned his head to the window, finding something to focus on that wasn't so hard to.  "Like _if_ you even fucking acknowledge them." He hissed.

  
"When I say something that means I want you to just smile once-- when you smile, _damnit_ , Carver," Clarke stopped himself, that last word or two barely passing for vocalization. "That smirk when you roll your eyes at some shit joke I piece together? Yeah, do you know what that means to me?" Isaac asked, looking dead on into the eyes that failed to meet his.

  
" _Carver_ -"

  
"What, Isaac- of course I don't!" Came the final reply. Shark eyes found the sea again.

  
The engineer tossed his words around a bit, evaluating whatever wooden block could keep the tower standing or make it crumble. "It means that maybe that night, that day, you won't be tearing at the fucking walls, or, or balling your fists at me and being so hard and _tempered_ \--" Isaac finds his own fist on the wall closest to him at this. It keeps John locked and listening in on him more than Isaac has known in a while.

  
"John, why can't you just stay still for a second and talk _to_ me?" Carver is still again. Not thinking, but getting the words to his mouth, perhaps. Isaac's voice is calm again; "Not _at_ me..?"

  
The Sergeant speaks out and his lip curls. "What the fuck are you supposed to say to this?" He steps forward and looks almost predatory. _Almost_. "What do you have for me to hear, Clarke?

  
"Are you going to say 'It's okay' and shush me like you do?" The snarl turns into a crooked smile. "'Cause man I fucking love it when you're quiet like that. Talking...

  
" _To_ me," Carver chuckles slowly. He doesn't seem so distant like that, but closer and closer physically.

  
In the back of Isaac's head, he thinks that this is new. And, that maybe he can like this right now.

  
"Look who's talking now," Clarke fronts, stepping ever closer to the other. Amidst feeling like Carver could land five knuckles into his jaw right of now, Clarke also feels an exhillirating nervousness that becomes distant, distant with the passing words.

  
Thinned eyes glare darts at the smirking engineer, something dangerous behind both blue eyes and brown. Something dangerous to not set foot in, but to taste. Isaac thinks it wouldn't be sweet, and so does John.

  
Then, again, comes the voice low with a tinge of amusement and sarcasm."Tell me why you care so much, Isaac."

  
"Ooh, first names?" Isaac chides dryly.

  
"Spit it out, Clarke." Came the warning.

  
"You wouldn't care or listen anyway if I _did_."

  
"I said, spit it out!" Carver snapped and gave his engineer a shove back against a countertop, wrenching a typical grunt from him. The triumphant feeling of catching him off guard wasn't near as good, surprisingly, as when the fire re-ignited in Isaac's overall language and a fist connected with Carver's cheek.

  
It was a dull ache that neither of them could've possibly missed, but it gave the Sergeant a feeling of renewal somewhere in his mind. That white-edged vision that just tops off the rage spinning through you, oh God, it was so familiar yet just out of reach.

  
Strong fingers curled around the fabric of Isaac's worn jacket, a yelp escaping the other's throat when shoved back against a wall. "You fucking heard me, Isaac Clarke."

 

A smirk spread on said's face and a dry laugh trailed through the air between their faces. The simple noiseless cackle could've caught Carver off guard. Clarke stops and spits out suddenly, "Fuck you, John," and tries to shake the Sergeant off of him, try to get away from the feeling of pressure and captivity against him.

  
To no avail, he tries again... 

  
No movement. _Shit_. 

  
Fingers slide deftly, slinkily and slowly up to the plane of Isaac's neck and wrap perfectly there, snug but loose against the skin. "'Scuse me, Clarke, what was that?  
"I can't quite hear you." – The fingers tighten now, the grin swapping faces. Oh, this is definitely new, Isaac thinks up front.

  
Replying isn't much really in the range of actions to do just yet, honestly because Isaac doesn't surely want to get soft. To say what needs to be said just yet because right now Carver is the drugs and Clarke is the dealer. Sure, sticks and stones, blah blah— but damn for some reason he wants to _fuel_ Carver's lungs. 

  
Oh, and he does just that.

  
Twitches beneath the other's hands, holds the thick wrists that are all power and force. Feels his pulse, steady against the fast thrumming on Isaac's fingertips. Tighter, tighter, wraps Carver's hands, moving more towards the front rather than the side; indicates that Carver won't accidentally kill him. "Don't fight your reflex, try and breathe, Isaac," the tone of voice is mocking, accented just on the engineer's name. Something and just _something_ about it slowly starts to get to Isaac, sends a spark up his spine to the gooseflesh on his arms. Carver notices the tiny bumps.

  
John's voice is deadpan, "Get excited and I'll make you wish you didn't, fucker." The younger lets his hands sort of palm once against Clarke's skin and his pupils dilate; inward, out, then focused in again. Oh yes, it was those words exactly, just the right touch of fear they made rush through his head, not enough to do much but the kind that sparks pure curiosity. Sorry to say, Isaac thinks,  but it's ironic, isn't it..?

  
Solitary and single, the gasp that Isaac takes in leaves him involuntarily to cough. He can breathe again, but there's still a familiar, warm pressure on his neck. "Carver-" Isaac starts until a fist throws his head to the side, slouching back against the wall as the pain sets in suddenly. Just getting the feel of the grainy groan in his throat, the man's body hasn't the time to register much when he's thrown aside. Stumbles, falls, lifts himself up to skitter away.

  
Carver's brow furrows, smile all teeth and poison, those same canines catching a glimpse in the cold fluorescence once more. Tilts his head, "Not getting up, huh? I was hoping you'd have a bit more time for me," and manipulates the hair on Isaac's head between his fingers, _pulling_. It's not like it was much of a violent gesture, but the split second of Carver's fingertips trailing-- stroking down the back of Clarke's neck is what he realizes he doesn't want to disappear. 

  
Until, of course, it does, and he's left with a burning sensation and an "I--" passing his own lips, the ground becoming much farther away than he'd last remembered it; he's pulled too close to John's face in the next moment. 

  
He sees that the smirk has turned softer, much less expressive and overall, Carver's face has returned to that angry look again. Yet this time, it's not empty. Isaac hears himself cough, his hand hanging half awkwardly in the space beside their heads. Telling himself suddenly on the inside to say something, Isaac didn't notice the lips of his mouthing incoherence. It might've looked something like "tear me apart", but only Carver pays most attention to it.

  
A shake is what Carver gives him, coupled hands becoming a single, splayed out array of digits against Isaac's chest. The engineer is frozen; mouthing stopping once his attention went to the fingers sliding around his tapered wrist. Hand's still in the air, Isaac; good going.

  
His throat is dry, wondering itself just what the hell kind of words he could possibly want to use now. "Carver," he decides to whisper after moments of said man's eyes doing the talking. Damn, those eyes are dark, notes Clarke on a whim.

  
"Isaac," John husks, eyes drawn low, staring at something Isaac can't quite see. His lips, maybe. Ah, the tension is taut and almost suffocating-- perfect.

  
Isaac gasps in surprise at the fingers curling harder around his wrist until the bones, he swears, grind together. Blue eyes watch in intent the pad of a tanner thumb twitching, brushing, above the carpals in his hand. "John-- John?" Croaks, then croons Isaac.

  
The Sergeant’s eyes blink up to Clarke's face, attention probably only half on him, really. A probability when what is going on in Isaac's head is merely all focused on that hand, those hands that are making the smallest movements against hypersensitive skin. John's lips twitch at one side, slightly parted and...!

  
"You take me apart from the inside, d'you know that?" Isaac breathes, somehow out of air. He muffles a moan out of discomfort and moves his hand, fist curling and uncurling in Carver's hold. "But you don't even look at what you pull out, do you..?" It's more statement-sounding than anything, low and sultry with hopefully anything but like... _that_.

  
"What's to look at?" Carver asks, as if he's actually aware of what he sounds like. His tone not so much pushes, but presses right against the envelope; he's teasing.

  
The words make the engineer's body twitch altogether, hand unheld reaching up to push at Carver's chest hard enough to let the wall pull him in for a landing. It's Isaac turn to leer, but, of-fucking-course, he's just pulled by the arm flush against Carver right on the next beat.

  
Uncomfortable all the way. "Hey, uh," Clarke clears his throat, pretending at not best to notice the grip that slips down to the side of his hip. "You should let go now that I've answered."-- a mocking laugh, smile, and another struggle to step away.

  
"Nope," replies blankly the other, letting enough slack so the lesser could at least step away.  
Carver's amused when Isaac groans at the pulling of his wrist again, obviously becoming sore. Everything goes silent and the pull becomes too hard, and Isaac blames his foot for stepping forward, says it's an accident.

  
But what can't be called an accident is the firm press of lips against lips that lingers for what doesn't last forever, but rather seems like it might've never happened at all. 

  
Both pairs of eyes are wide and serious, questioning; again, there's that point of interest Isaac nor Carver can put their fingers on when the Sergeant lets go, ever slowly, of Isaac's wrist. Fingers twitch open and closed again, again, again...

  
They can call the way Isaac pushes against Carver and absolutely kisses him an accident later. John's reaction is mildly different from the way Clarke fights against the equal force of dominance, which is to grab hold of whatever he can as if to take some sort of frustration out on it-- also known as Isaac's nape and the thick fabric caddy to Carver's right shoulder. 

  
Hands feel and touch and how they can't seem to feel enough is answered easily when deft engineer hands shoot cold up the dark fabric back of Carver's shirt, nails gripping into half scarred half smooth skin. Growling rumbles from John's chest, throwing all of Isaac's tiniest doubts to the wind-- doubts of what, commitment to a little bit of, what, a pity-fuck? Sure!

  
"Carve- Shit, Carver!" Clarke hisses whether to himself or actually to John when the word comes to mind, "Pity-fuck", pressing his forehead briefly to the other's in a chance to get least one breather in. When Carver doesn't answer and only his breath feels too humid, warm against Isaac's face, Isaac leans away and stares incredulously at Carver.

  
"What the fuck was that?" they both manage to chime together simultaneously. In a few moment's silence, who (the silence) enjoys it, one of them makes a final move. It's Carver, with his hand sliding from the back of Isaac's head to his shoulder, dropping away at last. "Something getting everything off my mind," Carver states.

  
Isaac thinks of agreeing, but just stays silent. It sounds... Wrong. A bad plan, to him; did the Sargeant really want to use him as a... Distraction? His eyes can do the talking in pair aside his feet, shuffling backwards with Carver's forwards. The floor seems colder than usual, most likely because shoes are absolutely out of the picture; today was a nothing day. _Was_. Bare ankles bump at last against the side of the frameless bed until the lesser is pushed down and stared at with the eyes of a shark. Hungry, is what they say; hungry and wanton.

  
John's knees dig into the mattress and create dents beside Isaac's legs, blue eyes searching for any indication of the Sergeant's next move. What he expects is for him to say something rude or smart ass-ish, but if Isaac isn't going crazy (which may be a probability), what he really experiences is Carver's silence. That silence, though, holds one thousand and one words itself as the man pushes down against Isaac's collar when he tries to sit up. It was a gesture of an alpha-male high, and John was sure to ride that out-- roughly, per se.

  
The one thing that really yanks Isaac out of his races of "What should I do?" and most definitely and plainly, "What?!", is the teeth that clamp around the shell of his ear. A sharp, deep shock goes through Isaac's body, it's visible, overall surprising without the gasp. Instead of a gasp there's a struggle beneath Carver's pressure on his upper chest, limiting the intake of breath and, obviously, trying to send Isaac into a panting fit. 

  
That doesn't happen until Carver's hips create a much more familiar pressure far below.   
Isaac loses his breath for a moment, John's teeth working at the skin just beneath, lower, and lower until teeth dig into his skin again. Warm, too warm, Clarke's mind whispers somewhere. The engineer almost relaxes as a numb feeling is made right on the spot where Carver's lips are, almost melts-- until Isaac realizes, knows exactly what he's doing. Pale hands push abruptly at broader shoulders, bringing about a growl and grunt when Carver's back hits the bed in turn; Isaac's eyes make a decadence of emotional dominance show on John's face. He swears the man pales beneath him.

  
Isaac for a second remembers just how intimidating, how crazed he can look at times, under just one little amount of control. His fingertips trail against the scar over Carver's face in mock apology, in mock gentleness. He presses them down when each of the four rest on John's forehead, the other's expression now bringing upon slight confusion, and Isaac pushes the man's head back against the mattress. Isaac leans down to press his tongue against John's pulse, some sort of releasing hum emitting through bared teeth. 

  
Makes a kiss there, Clarke's lips, small and nearly lifeless, then reaches the area that Carver finally cranes his neck into; remorseless, absolutely spur of the moment, the engineer bites. Hard. Ah, the way Carver yelps, helpless sounding-- a pulse of anything called dark flows through Isaac and he laughs, laughs against Carver's abused skin. Just as he pulls away and his lips create a lazy smile at his work, purpling indentations in two perfect crescents, the man beneath Isaac twists him to land harshly on the floor beside his grounded bed. 

  
Dull pain, another (or what feels like) one of those hard, frustrated kisses, and blurry vision-- Isaac just groans. Carver, on the other hand, moans low and haughty in the way that brings Isaac's everything to full attention-- save for the throbbing at the back of his head. There are hands feeling at his sides, the feel of cloth not beneath them by the time they stroke over ribs that jut out , a flat stomach, and—

  
"Carver!" Isaac voices, maybe a little too loudly, when jagged and bitten nails attempt getting underneath his skin. Scoring hot lines down the lesser's torso to meet at the waistline of Isaac's pants takes Carver more time than it does to yank open Isaac's jeans and kiss him at the same time-- though, what they do is far past whatever kissing is. Kissing? Half-one-sided... kissing?

  
Isaac closes his eyes briefly every time they make that god-awfully dirty type of "kiss", brows half knit at the different sensations going on as he tries to herd, to slowly push Carver to his knees, both of them ably upright. He does, and smoothes his hands up a back made of heated skin pulled over tight, worked muscles; once, Carver twitches away with a look of pain, deep and enjoyable pain beneath long fingers that dig into a spot somewhere between rib and spine. Shakily, the younger exhales and presses his forehead against Isaac's.

  
"I hate you, y'know that," John breathes and, Isaac _swears_ , nuzzles against the side of his face. All Isaac really does in return is croak out a chuckle, biting the skin he already marked.

  
Carver stiffens with a gasp.

  
"Whassat for..?" Isaac mumbles lazily regarding Carver's suddenly frozen physique, letting his hands find the man's hips, letting his thumbs feel the unfamiliar V that shapes these particular hips. "Did that feel good?" He purrs lazily, noting the other's hips pushing against his pale hands. "God, you're so much different than a woman, but... Not, John.

  
"You're... Kinda rough. _Really_ rough, 'scuse me," Isaac continues and feels a hand rake through his hair, yanking and _shit that hurts!_

  
"Look at _yourself_ , Clarke," comes a husk that could be called scary if only it wasn't filled with lust. Seductive, maybe, but just not there yet. Isaac just rolls his eyes and tilts his head back, registering the cushion at his feet. Carver's bed.

  
"You can do that for me," Clarke hums and pushes the other back on his unbalanced axis down onto the bed. "Take of your clothes," he demands softly.

Isaac finds that he can't quite sound too angry, dominant right now. Pity, he thinks and smirks.

  
Carver nearly immediately looks befuddled, especially when Isaac sheds of his jacket and shirt, just getting to the belt buckle of his pants before the other speaks again. "Why?"  
Of course. Of COURSE he asks why.

  
"You tell me, speedy," the engineer chides and runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering why he likes the taste of John on them as he points directly at Carver's crotch; he's one hell of a blunt man, Isaac thinks for the um-thousandth time.

  
The Sergeant rolls his eyes and hunches upwards off the bed to tug the neckline of his shirt over his head, slipping the fabric off completely. Ho-lee-shit, thinks the ocean-eyed man. But, really, all Clarke manages out is pathetically, "Damn, Carver."

  
A mock smile accompanies sarcastic flailing hands, musing in an exasperated sigh, "Surprise, surprise; I'm not a chick,"-- Carver 2.0 update.

  
"Sarcastic asshat," Isaac growls and pushes Carver's hands back down beside his head, feeling knuckles slide against knuckles. Lets the man kiss him once, twice, then bites his lip. Unfortunately, Carver grunts and is taken aback, leaning away to soothe it with his own tongue.  Isaac gets momentarily lost at the sight of the sheen of saliva it leaves on the corner of John's bottom lip. Among the signs flashing through just a stare, Isaac feels himself pushed up by Carver's hips and somewhat knee-nudged to the side again, and thinks that this is as bad as it'll get-- and it's good.

  
Even the fingers that push against and past his lips are good. In an odd way, of course, because the action sets in the definite, final, You are Going to Get Fucked. Or John has a finger fetish. Yeah right... Should've come with a What To Expect document, Isaac curses himself.

  
Uses his tongue, pushes his head up a bit with watchful and bright eyes to take the digits a bit farther into his mouth whilst shucking down his pants that have seen more than enough now. Time for them to go-- those end up in a heap on the floor beside their best friend, the shirt. Briefly as ever, the engineer wonders how the hell Carver knows to prepare... Wait, but how does he, himself, know that? Common sense, Isaac finalizes. Wasn't sure Carver really had any common sense—

  
"Fuck! One at a damn time, Carver," Clarke curses in a gasp, breath stuttering as he tries to relax.

Looks down at himself, and pries, "How do you know what to do anyway?"

  
"I went through high school and bootcamp, don't tell me you don't know that experience," Carver hums back, breath flush against the side of Isaac's face.

  
"Touché..!" Clarke shudders and knits his brow, the dull burning not fading just yet. Doesn't feel too bad, just... Hard to relax. Though the feeling of thorough ecstasy slowly seeps into his skin as tingles run up and down Isaac's arms from the feel of Carver's shoulders beneath his palms. He's warm, different from the cool air and sheets beneath his body. A hand wraps around him, not stroking but sort of just staying there; possessive, maybe. "Just a heads-up, Carver...

  
"If you split me in half, you won't see the end of it," Isaac laughs weakly, the man above him humming amusedly and shaking his head. The feeling of fingers curling inside of him makes a ripple of numb go through him, and Isaac writhes a little bit each time Carver moves his fingers, shifting between a silence dotted with occasional cracks in Isaac's throat and the sound of the sheets rustling. 

  
"You're being awfully quiet-"

  
"John! Johnjohnjohn..." Isaac yelps coincidentially, stringing the Sergeant't name for a moment, letting his head loll back into the bed for a moment or two. Embarrassment almost makes its way into Clarke's status quo, but doesn't luckily enough after a long, low moan finds its path through the air. Carver himself moans in slight unison with Clarke, the latter unabashedly grinding his hips against the engineer's thigh.

  
Said man notices, of course, and pleasure _itself_ knows who he is, because it's all vocal to get Carver to see what the hell Isaac's eyes are saying. He says it; "Do it already," just above a whisper that makes Carver shudder and the air becomes thick and swaying with the sound of more rustling, a rejectory grunt followed by a moan, a hum, and...

  
"Oh God," Carver whispers and finds himself bucking his hips involuntarily-- Clarke nearly chokes. Lips kiss beneath Isaac's ear, the feel of the Look-I-Shaved-A-Few-Days-Ago skin against his lips making goose bumps form on the back of his neck. Clarke feels half-full when he's fully intruded, and a slightly uncomfortable pulsing inside.

  
He shifts for friction, and Carver growls-- a warning. Isaac stops like a scolded puppy, eyes not so much glossy but actually almost flooded. John lifts his head and inquires about it; "Why you cryin', man?"

  
"You're fucking huge! It, it's," Isaac's voice trails off into an incoherence that translates roughly to "Can't talk with a dick in my ass", respectively. What does make it out, is, yes, "Just fucking move, Carver!"  Isaac solely swears that he will never admit it was a whimper. Carver will tease him later.

  
The Sergeant has the nerve to kiss him at the first thrust, no matter how soft or slow it was, probably to swallow whole the groan fleeing Isaac's lips. The man won't wait forever, that's for sure, he's not getting stopped, either. Lips, soft against rough at each kiss, perfect and more perfect with each slow grind of John's hips. 

  
"You're hot," Carver grunts in the middle of their kisses, and in all honesty it catches Isaac way off guard.

  
"What?" Clarke snaps back.

"Temperature-wise, Isaac." Oh, the way he says that name, Those two innocent syllables turned into a breathless, erotic word. Funny, Isaac thinks, and that's about the only coherant thought he gathers up for a while. With the feeling of slowly quickening movements, ah, Clarke shivers and pushes against Carver's hips. Feels Carver wanting and taking his time, and Isaac knows that this is just a selfish thing; but hell, if Carver's part is selfish, Isaac must be a narcissist.

  
Rhythm builds up yet the burning is still there inside, muffled half-moans soaking their skins with light convulsions. Carver's mostly silent, he'll gasp often in Isaac's ear, feels close yet far away in the engineer's perspective; a deeper moan wrenches out of Carver's throat when teeth graze against and worry his neck some more. With that, though, his hips buck out of time from their slow pace and make Isaac's eyes go wide again, but just briefly at that one gasp that sparked electricity down Isaac's spine. There's a command of "A little faster, maybe?" barely making audibility, but no doubt does Carver hear it and shit there's a vigorous pace, now.

  
Isaac pretends not to be surprised at Carver's sudden brutality, but hey, the legs that wrap around his waist aren't complaining as Carver holds Clarke's hips higher. Isaac arches into the other bent over above him, breath against his lips as fingertips dig into his hips and John's arm curves underneath his lower back to keep him up. Warmth presses against his chest from John's other hand and finds his neck, strings of blurred together no's and yes' flashing in Isaac's mind. For any reason he won't up front ask about, Clarke likes the feeling of Carver's hand pressing, wrapping slightly around the column of his neck and tilts his head back slightly to rasp a moan for him. Four points of burning lines form acrossed Isaac's lower back from John's fingertips and make him try to move up and away, causing a full-on connection with the bundle of nerves inside of him; Isaac yells the Sergeant's name. Last name, respectively.

  
By now Clarke's head, shoulders and upper back keep him in contact with the bed beneath him-- oh, Carver's bed. Pants out pathetic tiny whimpers in his attempt for Carver to find that spot again, opening to see eyes staring right at him. Isaac bites his lip and suddenly feels self conscious; why? probably his loudness. To have someone fucking you near senseless looking straight at you during the whole thing-- why does it make him feel good? A show is what it is to Carver if anything, really, and kisses the man beneath him when the next strangled moan comes around. Carver finds himself tracing his tongue along Isaac's inner bottom lip, sighing with another hard kiss.

  
Isaac feels like some sort of encrypted message, a tongue mapping out all around his mouth, fingers sliding away from his throat to feel at his pectorals, stroke his fingers against the arms leading to nails forming crescent dents on Carver's upper back. Clarke feels the need to lean away from the sensation at his ribs and down his side, pulling away from the wet kiss to sort of stutter-moan when they reach his navel. Isaac wonders far away why John's feeling him almost affectionately, tracing the outlines of his body with that hand like some sort of lover. The good part is that Isaac likes it; the bad part is also that he likes it.

  
The engineer cries out quietly, softly to get said's attention. The word "More," just feels good rolling off his tongue, Isaac feels something like an infant learning their first word, saying it like a mantra as he's brought bit by bit closer to the end. 

  
Carver's thoughts are teeming with euphoria, his half-there appearance portraying that he's just somewhere completely else. He probably hasn't had sex in a while, Isaac notes. The pace becomes briefly slower, then Carver angles his hips and when he pushes in all the way, Isaac's body goes tense and twitching with his choked keen. "Isaac?" John's lips murmur against the skin behind Isaac's ear. The man below him makes a short fit of mewls, bucking his pale hips to get more contact right against that sweet spot; Isaac manages to get out, "Yes..?"

  
Carver shifts his hips and finds his hand wrapping around Isaac's cock, who looks completely on verbal autopilot. "Do you want me?" John asks and notes that maybe, he sounds a little desperate with that tone of voice.

  
"I nee- _yes_!" Clarke yelps at the squeeze around his shaft, but absolutely howls when Carver pulls out.

  
For a second, Isaac's heart drops out of pure self doubt.

  
Until he feels his knees and elbows digging into the sheets and the push of Carver's cock meets right up with his prostate. Shivers roll down Isaac's body that're almost audible, a hand on his waist, and one in his hair pushing his head down. Teeth are at his ear again, chest pushing against the mattress at every deeper thrust John gives him. The engineer resists the urge to lash back at the mouth abusing his shoulders and leaving red marks, but the heat in his stomach and the pressure at the base of his spine and the pleasure keep him from it; _fuck_ it's almost too much!

  
Behind him there's a growl and Isaac's toes curl into the sheets as well as his fingers, biting down on his wrist to muffle his whines and there will be a mark to remember in the morning. Even for a few days.

  
Carver moans in his ear, breath humid against his skin until teeth grip onto it. Clarke whines and feels a bit too submissive, bucking his hips back and digging his nails into the top of Carver's hand on his chest. Refusal of losing the domination round floods Isaac's head despite being, overall, completely dominated, as Carver finds a sensitive pale nub on Isaac's chest and pinches, tugs lightly and-- that's it. He clamps his teeth down harder into the skin of his own wrist, feeling a rush of a hoarse cry and a burning, arched back as the world goes white for a moment's time.

  
Carver seems distant, there’s the feeling of breath against his neck but Isaac can’t quite make out the world around him other than the loose, uncoiled feeling all over. Even that, though, seems far away.

  
 _Himself_ seems... Distant.

  
Everything quickly comes to with a sharp tug at the loss of warmth inside of Isaac's body, feeling abruptly empty and tired, sort of sticky and limp. In a few moments’ passing, the body beside him shifts and stretches in the silence, a strong hand pressing warmly against Clarke's shoulder. "Isaac?" whispers the darker man, fingers sliding amorously, drained of most energy against Isaac's skin. 

  
The engineer hoists himself up to his knees with shaky arms, feeling naked and self conscious again. Stop that, he laughs to himself on the inside. The laugh he hears is dry. Carver speaks again, this time, "You alright, man?" Oh, that voice... Sounds like it's drifting in and out of sleep, sounds... Calm. It makes Isaac smile, crow’s feet barely crinkling at the corners of his closed eyes. 

  
"'Course I'm alright," Isaac whispers-- why does he feel like the whisper is so fitting...? Not because it's like it's concealed from the world or hidden from any predator, but... It's just nice to hear such a softness. "Go to sleep, I'm gonna—“ Isaac yawns before he finishes, “… Shower."

  
Carver nods and smiles briefly, shifting on the smallish bed to swing his legs over the side. That smile burns an image into Isaac's head as he gets up, trying his best not to mind the sensation of semen dripping down his thigh or the throbbing in his ass. Fuckin' sore _now?_ Think of it tomorrow... Eh, he just hopes that Carver doesn't stare at his bare ass as he walks to the doorless bathroom and turns on the water that's too stubborn to heat up all the way, brushing off politely Carver's sincere apology at the fact that he has bruises forming all over his torso. Isaac smiles for the third time in a row.  
  
When Isaac comes back from washing, there's a pair of newer sheets on Carver's and his' bed, the one thing most different is that both the twin mattresses are pushed parallel together. Isaac notes it to be a sweet thing to think of; a close bond sort of feeling sprouts in him. Some kind of light enthrallment. He gets a decent pair of underwear on, slides silently next to the man on the close bed. Sound asleep, he smiles to himself. The afghan he uses as a blanket feels softer than usual as it joins him in staring at the ceiling, breathing pattern falling in harmonized rhythm with Carver's for a moment or two. Both of them would sleep better than in quite a while shows.

Aren't complaining now, those men, aren't lonely... What they _are_ , must be in good company. Isaac closes his eyes and this time, he doesn't feel the dull blistering feeling in the back of his eye; doesn't notice that fact, either. Just slides his hand to the spot where Carver's is beneath his makeshift pillow of a balled-up sheet with burnt edges, presses his fingers in relaxed curls against the other's palm... Just before drifting off, he swears he feels John's fingers stroke briefly against his wrist and palm.

  
Until the morning, they don't understand that Carver didn't dream that night, or that Clarke didn't have to wake up and help him get out of that dream that could've been. Later, they can or can’t discuss that night’s matters.


End file.
